The Canticle of Ordrass: The Wheel of the Year - Lughnasadh

By Logan L. Masterson

Magic, monsters, and murderous intrigue reign in author Logan L. Masterson’s fourth tale of his CANTICLE OF ORDRASS: THE WHEEL OF THE YEAR—LUGHNASADH.

As summer fades into autumn, the villagers of Matharden prepare for the harvest and a special wedding. But the Maiden Sisters Mairi, Iseabheal, and Davia have much to do, and danger lurks in every shadow. Before the celebration of Lughnasadh is over, old scores will be settled, spies exposed, and ominous portents made manifest. Is Mairi strong enough to pay the price of her power? Will Iseabheal find the balance her path demands? And can Davia’s insight show the way for them all?

CANTICLE OF ORDRASS: THE WHEEL OF THE YEAR—LUGHNASADH is the fourth short story in Logan L. Masterson’s Pro Se Single Shot Signature series of digital singles from Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Jul 22, 2015

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THE WHEEL OF THE YEAR – LUGHNASADH

A CANTICLE OF ORDRASS TALE

by Logan L. Masterson

Published by Pro Se Press

Part of the SINGLE SHOTS SIGNATURE line

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Copyright © 2015 Logan L. Masterson

All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

Three days of unceasing rain had dampened the Maiden Sisters’ spirits. Davia supposed such weather was to be expected so far north, as the villagers and older priestesses went about their labors with little discomfort. The fields were empty of workers, though, with such mud to hassle foot and hoof, and with such an icy wind blowing in from the northeast.

The rains Davia knew best were quick and furious, laden with flashing light and rumbling thunder, pelting her island homeland for a few hours and passing on. Here in Matharden, which lay somewhere near the middle of the Kingdom of Marien, the weather was slower to change, surer of mind.

Seated with her sisters in a round tower room, where the windows provided some gray light, she laid her needlework aside with a sigh. Though skilled with handcrafts, and always desirous to perform her duties with grace, her heart was not in it. The dimness of flickering lamplight and cloudy skies hurt her eyes. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, and then her fingers. Their dark skin was still smooth, save the callouses that strengthened fingertips and finger roots.

You are sick to death of this, aren’t you? Iseabheal asked, standing and shaking her head to ruffle cascading blonde curls.

I am, Davia admitted, rising too, and lifting her hands, trying to reach the sky with her fingers.

Mairi remained upon her bench, hunched into her work, the needle piercing swiftly through midnight blue cloth. The silvered thread left the details of a woven pentacle ringed in stylized woodflowers. The auburn-locked northerner’s brows furrowed over green eyes as she focused. Less artistic than her Sisters, perhaps, Mairi was intense in everything she did, and her duties most of all.

Join us, Sister, Iseabheal said. Your neck will snap if you don’t stretch a bit.

Mairi grunted, worked another half-minute, and finally set her project aside.

The sisters joined hands, and began a slow dance, moving sunwise in languid steps, hips and shoulders rising and falling in a meditative rhythm. Energies flowed softly through them, following their progression. Each sister drew the power in through her left hand, filtered it into her spirit, and released it on her right, passing it forward, calm and pure.

They stopped, drew themselves out and bent at the waists, fingers still intertwined. They exhaled three soft breaths, and stood, their hands falling freely to their sides.

Then they resumed their work. Mairi’s pentacle decorated an infant’s blanket. Iseabheal stitched roses and starlings onto a tiny bonnet. The red cloth strip which Davia embroidered with elegant runes and moon symbols would be rolled tightly and placed between the mother’s teeth during childbirth.

They would have to finish by the next evening, Davia thought, if they were to get everything done in time for the Lughnasadh ceremony, when Mayor Torchael of Amhain and Mother Sister Lilianna would be wed. With Lilianna already expecting, the blessing of birthing tools was part of the marriage, or handfasting as the ceremony was called within the Church of Morgaine.

Davia smiled, finding a hint of passion in the purpose of her labor. Damn the weather, she thought.

* * *

In Lilianna’s